Line by Line
by boldly
Summary: He wishes he could read the indention of each vertebrae like a page from their father's diary, line by line .. until he understands.


Something a little longer. Yet again, another first attempt - I'm full of 'em lately! Prompt for this one came from listening to Silverchair for the first time in years: _"Could I be read if I was see-through, or would you just read my spine?"_ Gotta admit, I fell in love with the idea as soon as it came to me. It _screamed_ Dean Winchester. So. Here you go. For **I am and I**, because I love her to bits and pieces and it's been a while since I've written her anything. Shaaameful, Tsu. Just bloody shameful. Also, if this seems a bit jumbled, I did it on purpose.

.. Seriously.

I own nothin' 'cept for a Sam muse. Who is a blessing and a curse all at once. XD

Also, FFnet, please stop telling me my fics have invalid ID numbers. It's a little redundant to have to upload them more than once. =\

* * *

When he looks in the mirror, (the color of the motel walls is always different … sometimes it's just cheap wallpaper, but that never matters) he doesn't see the same face. A variance in lighting (one of the bulbs above the bathroom sink is flickering, buzzing like an irritated house fly) never changes the shadows beneath his eyes, so deep-set that he wouldn't have been surprised to find the bone beneath bruised. Purple and blue, smoothed over bleached white. As it stands, he can only see what's on the surface, the reflection of hazel eyes in grime-covered glass offering nothing more than a flat, almost dead stare.

He's learned to cover it pretty well, even when Sam asks too many questions. Mostly … he feels guilty for telling him to leave it, for snapping at him to _just shut the hell up and leave it alone_. He knows he's worried, wants to _do_ something, even if it's just giving him an outlet. Dean's never been one to indulge in that kind of shit. He keeps it to _himself_. What the hell does the rest of the world want with his whining?

He keeps on looking. (The light's still flickering, a bit more anxiously. That's all he needs, now – a fucking seizure right there in the middle of the bathroom floor. _"Help, Sammy, the light in here's giving me epilepsy!"_ Death by wonky light bulb. What a crock.) There's a couple days' worth of growth on his chin, and for all of five seconds, he considers shaving. His hair's getting long again. His skin is a bit more patchy than it usually is, and his eyes are so … _tired_ that sometimes he wonders how they don't just fall out.

(There'd been a light behind them, once. About four years ago – before all the goddamned demon blood and crossroad deals, before all the _bullshit_ – those eyes had told stories, broken hearts, known what it was like to smile without feeling like his face would break into a thousand pieces.)

He brushes his teeth with a cheap travel-size toothbrush – bought at a gas station, of all places, because Sam refused to believe that his teeth were self-cleaning just like his razor – turns the damn light off. (He'd been _that_ close to busting the goddamn thing.) Sam's already in bed when he comes back out into the room, but he knows he's not asleep. Neither of them sleep too easily, these days.

"G'night, Sammy."

A small, muffled grunt is his only answer.

* * *

He's staring at the ceiling again. Counting the cracks spanning from one corner to another. Thirty-two, so far. His eyes are dry, and tight, but every time he closes them, he starts thinking. Mostly about Dean.

He rolls over onto his side, curling an arm beneath the flat-as-hell pillow. Dean's been passed out for gone two hours now, give or take, sprawled on his stomach and snoring fit to wake the dead. Sam almost smiles. (It would have been a sad one, anyway. Counterproductive.) He finds his gaze tracing the line of his spine, wishing he could read the indention of each vertebrae like a page in their father's diary, line by line until he had some vague understanding. Of him. Of anything.

He has his own faults. (Leaving in the first place would always be near the top of the list, regardless of what he had come away with.) He knows Dean doesn't really trust him, doesn't have a reason to – and somehow he figures that has something to do with why he won't talk. Maybe not so much, but he can't help it. Not really.

Dean stretches in his sleep, and he watches the way every muscle seems to unwind, even in the darkness. He looks almost peaceful. (Sam does smile, this time. If this is his only respite, he would at least be thankful for that.) He figures … maybe one of these days, he'll start talking.

(They would never be perfect, have that apple pie life that was supposed to be what everyone else wanted. They would never have a white picket fence or a nine-to-five. They were scarred, they were flawed. Ragged and worn. But they were whole, even if their surfaces were a little scratched.)

He breathes deep, finally lets his eyes close. "G'night."


End file.
